


The Wolf and the Mongoose

by StarkRogers



Series: Witcher Fic [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, they've thoroughly discussed this beforehand, this is just 3000 words of fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27528451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: Jaskier sometimes needs it rough, and Geralt is happy to provide. PWP, this is 3000 words of fucking and Jaskier eventually getting what he wants.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Fic [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054499
Comments: 8
Kudos: 221





	The Wolf and the Mongoose

Geralt’s gloved hand knotted into the mop of brown hair atop Jaskier’s head and tugged, arching his neck backwards as Jaskier laughed, his eyes sharp, the smirk on his lips dangerous. The leather pinched and pulled his hair in sharp new ways that Geralt’s calloused hands never did, and that was a tiny detail that had Jaskier’s cock heavy in his trousers. Other details that were going straight to his cock: the feel of Geralt’s armor pressing painfully against his chest as Geralt leaned against him, forcing his back up against the wall. Jaskier’s doublet was already undone, and all he had between skin and leather was a thin linen shirt. The way Geralt’s thigh was already shoved between his legs set him on fire, and he ground against it until Geralt pulled it away with a warning growl.

“Oh Witcher - is this it, then?” he asked, his voice strangled from the tight angle of his neck, pulling his throat tight, and he felt every muscle in his neck clench and flex as he swallowed. His smirk grew wider. Jaskier could just barely see Geralt in front of him if he strained his eyes, and what he saw was a snarling mouth, flaring nostrils, yellow eyes bright like flame. He struggled against Geralt’s steel-tight grip. His mouth hung open as each breath became more forced, and he licked his bottom lip.

“Got me where you want me?” he panted, and Geralt’s fingers only got tighter, the arch of his neck forced further back and he moaned, his eyes slamming shut for a moment as arousal shot through him. Geralt’s hand was tugging insistently now, backwards and down, the Witcher’s hand grabbing the waistband of his trousers and yanking him forward until his legs had no choice but to give out, and he sank to his knees, pressed between the wall and Geralt’s thighs.

There was nowhere he wanted to be more than here and on most other nights he would be here the moment they got to their room, but tonight was different. The roughness was intoxicating; he raised his hands and pushed at Geralt’s thighs, but he might as well have been pushing against a tree; all he succeeded in doing was pressing himself hard against the wall. Geralt’s hand in his hair held him in place, kept him from slipping out sideways, and all he had to focus on was Geralt’s hips, his dark trousers, his cock hard and barely an inch from his face. Jaskier’s mouth watered at the thought, and he struggled again with an eager moan as Geralt reached down and began to undo his belt and buttons; Jaskier wanted it, and he wanted Geralt to _force_ it on him.

And Geralt would; because he knew that was what Jaskier wanted, what he was aching for tonight. Geralt had seen it in the tense lines of Jaskier’s shoulders as his performance fell on unappreciative ears after a rough, rainy day on the road. Geralt could always tell when Jaskier needed something harsher than kisses and gentle lovemaking. There would be none of that tonight, at least not right away. Tonight, Geralt would fuck him, and tomorrow he would wake to Geralt’s lips gently kissing fresh bruises, and his heart would feel like it was going to explode out of his chest-

But right now, they would fuck.

Geralt’s hand shoved its way into his trousers and pulled out his length and _fuck_ he was so hard already, thick and long and normally Jaskier didn’t try to take him down his throat all the way; it wasn’t that he couldn’t, he was very proud of his fellatio abilities thank you very much, but it simply wasn’t practical or comfortable on a regular basis. Right now he _ached_ for it. Maybe he was drooling, he wasn’t sure, until Geralt’s other hand, still gloved (sweet fucking Melitele _yes_ ) swiped a line of spit off his chin, then shoved its way between his teeth and held his bottom jaw firmly in place. Jaskier moaned and stroked the bottom of Geralt’s thumb with his tongue, tasting leather, smelling it, the smell he associated so closely with Geralt that it left him hungry, trying to force Geralt’s thumb deeper into his mouth. He didn’t succeed; Geralt’s hands were as rock solid as his thighs.

He wasn’t left hopelessly hungry for long though – a moment later Geralt was pressing his length past Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier tried to pull away, just to see what Geralt would do. He jerked his head back hard, and felt Geralt’s hand in his hair tighten, catching him from smacking his head into the wall, but then his grip was _forcing_ his head up against the wall, and his cock was back and Jaskier had nowhere left to go, not even an inch left as Geralt filled his mouth, his throat, and Jaskier barely sucked in enough of a breath before his air was cut off and everything was Geralt, just the White Wolf everywhere, filling every sense he had.

It was deep and insistent but still gentle, the way Geralt was rocking his length down the farthest inches of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier felt his pulse jump as his lungs tried to suck in a breath and failed, and a moment later Geralt was pulling out and Jaskier sucked in a ragged breath. He looked up at Geralt, his eyes electric.

“ _Fuck_ me,” Jaskier demanded roughly, and the flash in Geralt’s eyes was beautiful. Then one hand was enveloping the side of Jaskier’s face and jaw, the other still locked in his hair, and his cock was back between Jaskier’s lips and he didn’t even have time to moan with relief before Geralt was fucking him, his head held perfectly immobile, at Geralt’s mercy for how deep or how fast he wanted to go. The answer to both of those questions was “very” – very deep and very fast as Jaskier sucked in a breath every other thrust. His head couldn’t move but the rest of him could, and his hands were palming his own cock through his trousers which didn’t help him focus on the near-meditative breathing he had to do to keep up with Geralt, and he found himself suddenly falling behind, gasping through his nose as he moaned and rocked his hips against his hands, torn between stroking himself and needing to breathe.

His pulse was pounding in his head, he could feel spit dripping down his chin onto his throat; everything was becoming sharp and blurred at the same time; the room was gone, his hands were clenching uselessly in Geralt’s trousers, his own cock still aching and desperate but he could not longer think clearly enough to touch himself, his brain starting to demand air with more insistence, that need starting to rise above the pleasure of Geralt’s cock in his mouth, eclipsing even the neediness of his own cock.

But just as he was realizing all of this, before it could stop being hazy pleasure wrapped in danger, Geralt pulled away and Jaskier moaned loudly, gasping for breath, and even he could hear how ragged he sounded, how wrecked he already was – and how after a few deep, sucking breaths his exhales were soft whines, his body trembling, needing more, needing something more. He pulled against Geralt’s hands, tugging at his own hair, his hands on Geralt’s thighs tightening in the fabric, his teeth clenching with a groan.

Geralt stepped away, his hand still in Jaskier’s hair as he moved him to the bed, pushing him face-down onto the mattress roughly before finally letting go of his hair. Jaskier groaned, his hands instinctively reaching up to soothe away the lingering soreness that felt so good, but a moment later Geralt’s hands were around his wrists, forcing them down to the bed. The entire weight of the Witcher was above him now, all muscle and armor and buckles digging into his skin beneath his clothes.

“You were touching,” Geralt said gruffly, and Jaskier could barely pay attention because he could feel Geralt’s dick pressed against the cleft of his ass through his trousers and it made him _burn_ from the inside out. Geralt’s face pressed against Jaskier’s, his stubble rough against bare skin as the Witcher nuzzled and growled in his ear.

“You’re not _allowed_ to touch.”

Jaskier groaned and tried to lift his hips up, tried to rub against Geralt’s length, tried to do everything he could to distract him from his current mission, but the Witcher would not be deterred. He adjusted his grip so both of Jaskier’s wrists were held in one hand and moved his other hand down Jaskier’s back. It felt like a trail of fire branding its way down his spine and it did nothing to stop his writhing, not one bit, until Geralt’s hand settled on his lower back and shoved his hips down against the bed. Jaskier gasped and tried to jerk his hips, but there was nothing else he could do.

“Gonna fuck you,” Geralt’s voice rattled right next to Jaskier’s ear, and he swore his cock leaked a little precum just from the sound of it. “You won’t touch. You won’t come, not till I let you. Understood?”

Jaskier nodded, but he wasn’t entirely sure coming or not coming would be anything he could control, not right now, not as high strung as he was already. He was normally wildly verbose during sex, but right now the words were caught it in his throat and couldn’t escape or form sounds beyond moans. He couldn’t even _think_ of what words to say; he just needed Geralt to _fuck_ him. 

“Fuck me,” Jaskier muttered, testing his throat again, using the only words left in his brain. “Fuck me, please - fuck-” He broke off and groaned as Geralt’s mouth suddenly enveloped his ear, hot tongue licking up the shell before teeth tugged at the lobe. Jaskier couldn’t help it; he writhed beneath Geralt, bucked against his grip as his own whines turned into growls, but Geralt was ever-immovable, straddling his thighs and holding him down. Finally Geralt’s mouth pulled away, and his hands let Jaskier go, but only because he was shifting up onto his knees and yanking Jaskier’s hips up so he could hook his fingers underneath and begin undoing his buttons. Jaskier braced himself on one arm and reached down with the other, trying to help, but Geralt batted his hand away as he pulled open his trousers. 

Geralt shifted again and pulled Jaskier’s trousers down to his knees with one firm yank that left Jaskier breathless with arousal. Then Geralt reached up and pulled the shoulders of Jaskier’s doublet down, down to his elbows and Jaskier writhed, trying to help Geralt pull it off the rest of the way - but Geralt stopped, leaving the fabric locked tight around Jaskier’s elbows, and face-down on the bed he couldn’t do anything else to get it off. With his trousers locked around his knees and his doublet pinning his arms back, he was suddenly quite imprisoned by his own clothes. Geralt gave him a moment to let it sink in, to flex and struggle and fully realize his predicament, and then Jaskier was moaning wantonly, cursing and half-writhing, half-rutting against the bedcovers as arousal slammed through him. 

“Geralt,” he rasped, so needy, so _desperate_ , and so completely unable to do anything about it, couldn’t even get his hands to his dick. Geralt’s hands were on his hips, kneading inward, spreading his cheeks and Jaskier rolled his hips as Geralt pulled him up onto his knees, his face still pressed into the bedcovers, his hands useless and unable to hold him up. Geralt’s mouth pressed against his lower spine and he keened, anticipation rising as his mouth moved lower, and then Jaskier was shouting as Geralt’s tongue slicked its way over his entrance. Geralt’s tongue was inside him before he could regain his senses, and Jaskier could feel spit pooling beneath his cheek on the bedcovers but he couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe again between his moans as Geralt speared him on his tongue. Jaskier’s toes were curled, every muscle in his body tense and in agony from being unable to unclench from the onslaught of pleasure. 

_Finally_ Geralt pulled away and Jaskier sagged with something that was almost a sob, his body pooling into a weak mess on the bed. Geralt’s gloved fingers slid their way through the cleft of Jaskier’s ass, rubbing over his overstimulated entrance and making him gasp, then slid deep between his thighs. Jaskier slurred his words against the blankets, begging for Geralt to fuck him. The Witcher pushed his hips down against the bed again, and the thick heat of his cock slipped between his thighs. Jaskier moaned with hope, rolling his hips as Geralt’s cock teased against his entrance, his own length trapped between his body and the bed, leaking and desperate. 

“F-fuck- please- please-”

Geralt’s length slid between his thighs again, bypassing his entrance and he whined as Geralt ran a hand up his lower back, his fingers tracing so lightly it made his flanks clench involuntarily and almost painfully.

“Geralt!” Jaskier choked out, trapped beneath the other man’s hips, unable to do anything but shake as Geralt’s thrusts between his thighs slowly sped up, and dawning came to Jaskier. “You fucking _bastard_ ,” he gasped as Geralt’s thighs clenched around Jaskier’s own, and then Geralt was fucking the tight space between his thighs, pleasuring himself and giving Jaskier absolutely _nothing_ , nothing but the sensation of his cock being rubbed between his stomach and the blankets, the roughness of Geralt’s trousers digging into his skin, the creak of leather and the gentle clink of his belt buckle. Geralt had one hand on the bed, bearing most of his weight, the other pressed against Jaskier’s lower back, shoved up under his shirt. 

Jaskier could hear Geralt’s breath coming faster, the soft moans that were coming at the start of every exhale a sign he was getting close. What Jaskier didn’t know was whether or not Geralt was going to come _now_ , right here between his thighs, or if he was going to _finally fuck him_. 

The answer became clear as Geralt’s breath grew more ragged, his hips speeding up and stuttering as the hand pressed against Jaskier’s lower back clenched into a fist, and then Geralt was coming between his thighs with a guttural moan, spreading warmth and wetness that only served to make Jaskier even more desperate, because now he knew he had several minutes to wait before Geralt could go again - IF Geralt was going to go again. Either way he was _not_ getting fucked _right now_ and he was not going to be coming anytime soon and something loosened inside him, some of the tension they’d brought into the bedroom unfurling itself in his chest. Jaskier sighed softly, still hard, still needy, but less _desperate_ as he finally let go and stopped fighting. 

Geralt’s hand uncurled and rubbed soothingly against Jaskier’s lower back as he caught his breath, and then his hands pulled away as he sat up, still straddling Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier heard a soft slide of leather as the gloves came off, and then Geralt’s fingers were back on him, pressing warm against his entrance. He was still wet and loose from Geralt’s tongue, and the first two fingers slid in without much resistance at all and Jaskier moaned with renewed hunger. Geralt’s mouth pressed against the back of Jaskier’s neck softly as his fingers made him gasp, and Geralt’s voice was in his ear again.

“Alright?” Geralt asked, slowly stroking Jaskier from the inside out, undoing him with gentle kindness. 

“Yes,” Jaskier rasped, his hips rolling against the bed, feeling the slick mess between his thighs, and this time Geralt let him, allowed him to fuck himself between the bed and Geralt’s fingers as a third slid its way inside. Jaskier moaned - his breath was hitching in his throat as Geralt slipped a fourth finger in, shallow at first, but then Jaskier felt Geralt’s knuckles catching on the edge of his hole and he choked on his own breath. He was senseless, he was gone, he wasn’t even pushing back against Geralt’s hand anymore. He was just taking it as everything faded into a slowly building intensity and finally his voice broke from his throat. He was finally coming, shaking hard against the bed, twitching as his spend joined Geralt’s mess between his thighs. 

Jaskier’s breath shook as Geralt’s hand carefully pulled out of his body, leaving him empty and aching but satisfied, his entire body sinking into the loose bonelessness only achieved after every muscle spent far too long clenched and tense. There were gentle hands on him, fingers brushing the hair out of his eyes, pulling his doublet off the rest of the way and rolling him over with a groan. Cold air hit the mess on his stomach and thighs but he didn’t have long to think about it, because suddenly Geralt’s tongue was on his skin, hot and licking up not just Jaskier’s mess but Geralt’s own. Jaskier groaned and covered his face with his arms, flushing as Geralt ran his tongue through the slickness. His heart was pounding in his chest, but for a very different reason now, affection rushing through him for Geralt. Eventually Geralt pulled away and tugged off Jaskier’s trousers, then pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed up over him. Jaskier opened his eyes as he heard leather and metal, and when Geralt laid down and pulled aside the blanket his armor and trousers were gone, just the soft linen of his shirt against Jaskier’s body. 

Jaskier sank into the warmth of Geralt’s arms, curling into him as Geralt pulled him in tight, still kissing him softly, still soothing away all the roughness from earlier, and Jaskier knew that was something Geralt needed as much as Jaskier needed roughness. Geralt needed to reaffirm his gentle touch, needed to run his hands softly down Jaskier’s back, needed to press tender kisses to the places where Jaskier’s sweat-soaked hair fringed his temples. Slowly, both of them slipped asleep, Jaskier first, his breathing slowing bit by bit, coaxing Geralt to follow. 


End file.
